


And I’ll Say It Again

by anextrapart



Series: Still Too Young To Know [2]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anextrapart/pseuds/anextrapart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never believed he'd be here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I’ll Say It Again

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is an immediate followup to Still Too Young To Know, so I would recommend reading that first. 
> 
> I'd like to thank every single one of you who read, left kudos, and commented on Still Too Young To Know. I am still genuinely blown away by the response I received to what was essentially me playing with a little headcanon that I never really intended to post.
> 
> I'm pleased with where that story ended and do wonder if I should have just left well enough alone, but there were a couple things I wanted to address that didn't make it to the final cut there and so they are expanded upon here instead.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

He's never believed he'd be here.  
  
Dreamed it, hoped it, driven himself _mad_ for it, but he's never believed it.  
  
Yet here he sits—on Lizzie's couch while Lizzie, _his Lizzie_ , is curled against him with her legs slung across his lap. One of his hands spans her bent knees, the other arm wrapped around her back. Her head rests on his shoulder—the perfect spot for him to shift every few minutes to kiss her forehead.  
  
He feels close to deliriously happy tears, some mad emotion bubbling in his chest.  
  
"You smell good," she mumbles into his neck, the first words either of them have spoken for a while.  
  
He laughs at that, a startled burst of joy. "Thank you."  
  
He thinks she might be smirking a little when she scoots closer, practically in his lap at this point. "Oh, no, thank _you_."  
  
He grins stupidly into her hair and wishes he could stay right here, in this spot, forever. Regrettably, they've already been like this for some time and the evening has long since drifted into the late night. If he doesn't tear himself away now, he fears he won't be able to.  
  
"It's getting late."  
  
"Mhmm." She presses closer to him—she's been gradually undoing the buttons on his vest all evening and it gapes open now, her hand a warm pressure against his chest even through his other layers.  
  
"You need to get some sleep," he murmurs, hoping she takes the hint—he doesn't want to be the one to separate them.  
  
"Okay." She doesn't move to get up—if anything, she holds him tighter still.  
  
Damn it. This is the most comfortable he's been in ages.  
  
"I should go, sweetheart."  
  
"Stay."  
  
His heart stutters. "What?"  
  
"Stay," she says again, kisses his shoulder before tilting her head to meet his eyes. "Sleep here."  
  
Oh, _god_.  
  
"Is that a good idea?" he asks, each word agonizing to form. _Of course it's a good idea_ , most of his brain protests. _It is the single greatest idea a human being has ever had. Say yes!_  
  
"I want you here."  
  
"Lizzie…" _Say yes, say yes, say yes._  
  
"I don't want to wake up and wonder if you're thinking this is a mistake." Her fingers play absently with a button on his shirt. "I hate the idea of you being across town wondering the same thing about me."  
  
Here, now, with her warm and close and _sure_ , it seems impossible to imagine ever finding a reason not to be with her-  
  
"Can you promise me if you leave now that you won't spend the whole night finding reasons that we shouldn't do this, and then spend the whole morning justifying those reasons with the idea that I can't possibly love you?"  
  
-but that does sound an awful lot like something he would do.  
  
"I hope I wouldn't." He won't lose her. He _can't_. "I'll try not to."  
  
"Well, I'm not going to take that chance. I'm not a mistake, Red-"  
  
"Of course you aren't-"  
  
"-and neither are you," she insists, sitting up straight and poking his chest for emphasis. "We're going to make this work, do you hear me? We're going to get rid of the cabal, you're going to get your pardon, and then we are going to do _whatever the hell we want_."  
  
That sounds… wonderful, actually.  
  
He's going to take her everywhere, every place he's ever been and wished she were with him and then every place he hasn't discovered yet. It will be so much better when she's there. He'll show her the entire world.  
  
And yet.  
  
"It's not that simple."  
  
" _Fuck_ simple."  
  
"Lizzie-" He _wants_ this. He wants this so much.  
  
"No, just shut up and listen for a second. We'll figure it out as we go, okay?" Her hand fists in his shirt. "Red, if I lost you-"  
  
"Never. You won't."  
  
"I could, though. I could lose you so, so easily, and there would be nothing either of us could do." She hesitates before adding quietly, "You could lose me, too."  
  
"Don't." He _can't_.  
  
"I know it's horrible, and I'm sorry, but just think about it for one second."  
  
For one second? He thinks about it _all the time_. Some nights it's the only thing he _can_ think about, wrenched from nightmare to nightmare of her being torn from life, from _him_ , until, sweat-drenched and shaking, he gives up on sleep altogether.  
  
"Elizabeth," he says with a shaking voice, "if they touched you I would tear the world down around them."  
  
She rubs his arm soothingly. "I know, but I'm not talking about that—I'm talking about after. Because all I can think about is the after. If they took you from me, I would make them pay. I would hunt every one of them down-"  
  
"I don't want you to do that." He's not worth that.  
  
"I would do it anyway. I would rip them apart." Her grip on his arm tightens. "But what happens then? Revenge, and then what? You'd still be _gone_. What if I had let you off the couch the first time you asked and tomorrow was the day they got to you? I would spend the rest of my life knowing we might have had a little more time together."  
  
Her hand moves up from his arm to cup his face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone, and he can't help the way his eyes flutter shut at the touch—it's overwhelming, the way she touches him now, like he's something that _matters_.  
  
"Red, the point is I just… I don't think we should waste anymore time."  
  
He sighs and opens his eyes. "Being with me puts you in so much danger."  
  
"I'm already with you, though. Whenever there's a choice, I'm always going to pick you. Everyone knows that."  
  
He gapes at her and she smiles, eyes soft.  
  
"Everyone except you, it seems. Might as well start getting used to it," she says, patting his chest consolingly. "You're stuck with me."  
  
"Thank goodness for that."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
She looks so pleased that his throat closes up a little with emotion.  
  
"Yeah," he confirms.  
  
"Good." Her head drops back to his shoulder and she smiles up at him. "Love you."  
  
He's fairly certain his responding smile falls somewhere in the range of 'beaming, lovestruck fool', because her eyes widen at the sight.  
  
"Well, damn," she breathes. "You always going to smile like that when I say it?"  
  
"Probably." He takes her hand, which has drifted back to playing with his shirt buttons, and holds it in his. "I told you we'd make a great team."  
  
"I do hate it when you're right," she grumbles without much heat.  
  
"That must be exhausting."  
  
"Oh, very funny."  
  
"Since it just happens so often."  
  
"Thanks, I do see what you did there." She rolls her eyes, the effect rather ruined when she's overcome by a huge yawn.  
  
"Tired?"  
  
"Very. This stupid guy I'm into has been making me work my ass off for months to make him realize I'm into him."  
  
"He sounds exhausting."  
  
"You have no idea. Biggest troublemaker on the planet, this one." She swings her legs off his lap and moves to stand up, kissing him lightly as she goes. "Worth it, though."  
  
He feels like he should say something—there must be something he should _say_ because this is huge, and important, and she needs to know how much this means to him, considering he's spent so long resigned to the fact that he'd never have this and now they're here and-  
  
"Red?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Shut up. Come to bed." She holds out her hand.  
  
He takes it gladly, pulls on it a little as he stands.  
  
"Yes dear."  
  
She elbows him in the stomach for that and he laughs, catching her arm and pulling her into a bear hug when she goes to do it again.  
  
"Are you ever going to stop hitting me?" he asks, burrowing his head into the crook of her neck.  
  
"Nope." She kisses his temple. "Your fault. You taught me."  
  
He sighs long-sufferingly. "A terrible lapse in judgement."  
  
"You'll get over it," she says, wiggling in his arms until he loosens his grip enough to let her wrap her arms around him in return. "You know, this is going to be excellent research—I have a theory that you're secretly the cuddliest cuddler ever. True or false?"  
  
"Conditionally true."  
  
"Hm. Please state the conditions."  
  
He nuzzles further into her. "Level of emotional attachment to the recipient."  
  
She laughs, hands fisting in the back of his vest. "Oh, I'm in big trouble."  
  
"Afraid so."  
  
Still laughing, she spins them around without breaking their hug and starts heading down the hall, forcing him to walk backwards. They trip over each others feet twice before banging clumsily into the doorway of her room.  
  
"Red."  
  
"Lizzie."  
  
"I know this must be difficult for you—but we can't both lead."  
  
He muffles his delighted laughter in her shoulder before loosening his grip on her, and she leads them further into the room before detangling from him completely.  
  
He stands at the foot of the bed and tries not to look as awkward as he suddenly feels while she walks over to her dresser and opens a few drawers.  
  
She holds up a tank top and what looks like a _very_ short pair of shorts. "I usually sleep in this. I'll leave your own attire up to your discretion—whatever's comfortable, okay?"  
  
His brain is a bit busy yelling about _Lizzie_ and _legs_ for him to form a coherent response, so he simply nods before she disappears into the ensuite bathroom.  
  
He sits on the bed to untie his shoes, removes and places them next to the armchair in the corner of the room before slipping off his vest and draping it over the back of the chair. It isn't until he has unbuttoned and removed his dress shirt—also draped carefully over the back of the chair—and untucked the plain white t-shirt he wears underneath that he falters.  
  
He doesn't want to take off that last layer.  
  
Stalling, he takes off his socks (rolled up and placed inside his shoes) and his belt (coiled neatly on the seat of the chair), before sitting on the edge of the bed again to try and reason his way through this dilemma.  
  
She's going to see his back eventually and while he's not so foolish as to think she would ever be cruel enough to reject him based on his scars, it's not a pretty sight. Not to mention the story that goes with it. She knows he pulled her from the fire—she doesn't know it landed him in the hospital, and finding out will upset her.  
  
That settles it. He'll leave his shirt on for tonight and hope for just a little more time before he needs to show her.  
  
Just then, she reemerges from the bathroom and he promptly forgets what he was worrying about because _Lizzie_ and _legs_ and _so much bare skin_.  
  
"You're staring."  
  
He nods dumbly—he is absolutely staring. His hands find her waist as she comes to stand in front of him and he gazes up at her with eyes he's certain are no less than adoring.  
  
She stoops to kiss his cheek. "They're just pajamas. You're ridiculous."  
  
He swallows thickly, breathes, "You're _beautiful_."  
  
She blushes lightly in response and he'll be damned if it's not the sweetest thing he's ever seen.  
  
He rises, planning to move to the bathroom before he does something foolish like outright tackle her to the bed, but Lizzie pulls him into a hug first, arms slung around his waist.  
  
"I left a new toothbrush on the counter for you," she murmurs into his shoulder. "You can put it in the holder when you're done, okay?"  
  
He very much likes the sound of that.  
  
Hugging her back tightly, he kisses the top of her head for what must be the millionth time tonight just because she's perfect and he loves her and he finally _can_. "Okay."  
  
She pulls back after a moment and nudges him in the direction of the bathroom. "Go—we're never going to get anything done anymore if you keep hugging me so much."  
  
"I'm fairly certain that one was your fault, sweetheart."  
  
"It was definitely your fault."  
  
He laughs, and goes to brush his teeth.  
  
"Which side of the bed do you prefer?" she calls after him.  
  
"Whichever you don't," he calls back, and pretends his voice doesn't waver a little at the idea of being able to have sides of the bed with her.  
  
He shuts the bathroom door and quickly completes an abbreviated version of his nightly routine. The discovery that he and Lizzie prefer the same brand and flavor of toothpaste results in a completely disproportionate burst of happiness.  
  
He is turning into a child.  
  
This becomes even more apparent when he is struck with the thought that he still hasn't decided whether or not to sleep with his pants on. The sheer anxiety that brings on—over such a ridiculous matter, and one he would never fuss over in any other situation—is absurd.  
  
(Somewhere, Dembe surely senses this and is probably laughing uproariously.)  
  
Once he resolves to simply ask her, he opens the door only to see her walking in his direction. Before he can so much as get a word out or even step over the threshold, she crowds into his space and runs her hands down his chest.  
  
She doesn't say anything—her fingers bunch the cotton for a second before her hands slide up and to his face, cupping his jaw.  
  
And then she kisses him, long and slow, in a way that makes him gasp and take a half step back to catch his balance—not from physical force but from the _feeling_ of it.  
  
God help him, but Lizzie kisses him like she loves him.  
  
When they break apart she doesn't go far, just leans her forehead to his and breathes with their lips brushing.  
  
"What was that for?" he asks breathlessly.  
  
"Wanted to," she whispers, kissing his jaw.  
  
"Oh." _Oh._  
  
"That okay?"  
  
"Very okay."  
  
She hums contentedly. "Mm, and I do like you in a t-shirt." Her hands move up beneath the front of his shirt, sliding warm and firm up his abdomen before venturing to his sides and then back around to-  
  
She freezes.  
  
"Red?"  
  
No.  
  
He's been so worried about her _seeing_ —he'd forgotten that she might _feel_.  
  
Her fingers trace the edges, the border between smooth skin and the twisted mess of his back, while he stares unseeingly at a point over her shoulder. Her hands are still warm, so gentle, and it would probably feel amazing if he weren't sick with fear.  
  
"Red, what...?"  
  
She doesn't finish the question, but he understands. She wants to know what happened.  
  
Unable to speak but forcing himself to meet her eyes, he slowly removes her hands from his shirt and raises her right arm to press the gentlest kiss he can manage to the scar on her wrist.  
  
Her eyes widen, filling with tears.  
  
"That night?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"No," she whispers, almost a sob.  
  
She searches his face with damp eyes and he can't imagine what she finds there. He wonders if he looks as terrified as he feels.  
  
Her fingers hover at the hem of his shirt. "Can I?"  
  
Maybe it's better to just get it over with.  
  
He turns so she's facing his back before he grasps the bottom of his shirt and pulls it smoothly up and over his head.  
  
He bows his head and squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see her face in the mirror. His arms hang limply at his sides, shirt held in one, until her hand reaches for his other and she laces their fingers together, gripping tightly.  
  
She doesn't say a word and he's nearly shaking with with the tension of holding still, hopes desperately that she looks her fill quickly. The scars are hideous and he wishes she never had to see them. If he could remove them for her sake, he would.  
  
He would never remove them for his own sake. Not even if it were free, painless, and the work of a scant minute. Call it pathetic, but he's _proud_ of them.  
  
Those scars are the result of the single greatest thing he's ever done.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" It's soft, not accusing, and for that he silently thanks anyone or anything that's listening.  
  
"Didn't want to influence you. Make you think you owed me anything. I know it's ugly-"  
  
She squeezes his hand. "Stop, you know I don't care about that."    
  
He inhales sharply at the first touch of her lips between his shoulders.  
  
"I hate how much this must have hurt you."  
  
He wishes he could reassure her, could tell her it didn't hurt all that much, but he doesn't lie to her.  
  
She kisses his scars again, and again, and somehow it makes him want to melt into her and also makes him want to scream.  
  
"You're a good man, Red."  
  
He pitches forward at that, at the staggering weight of it—shuts his eyes and reaches out to grip the sink tightly with his free hand, the counter's edge softened beneath the shirt he's still holding.  
  
"I'm-"  
  
" _You are._ " She steps forward until she is pressed all along his back, her lips at the nape of his neck. "You are."  
  
They stay like that for long moments, him leaning on the counter for support and trying to remember how to breathe, and her just resting against him, still dropping occasional kisses to his shoulders.  
  
Eventually, he feels her pull on the fabric clenched in his grip and he opens his eyes, watches his hand let go as he shifts his weight back to his feet.  
  
Instead of taking the shirt away, she picks it up and offers it to him.  
  
"Put this back on."  
  
"I don't have to." He desperately wants to.  
  
"Go ahead. You weren't quite ready for this, and that's okay." She kisses his neck one more time before stepping back. "I'm not in any sort of rush."  
  
He _is_ in a rush though—he's in a rush to be over this fear, to not mind if she sees. Anyone else in the world and it feels like a badge of honor, but he doesn't like showing it to her and he doesn't know _why_.  
  
Putting the shirt back on, he refuses to meet his own eyes in the mirror and turns back around to face her instead. She runs her hands down the front of the shirt, tugging it into place and smoothing out the wrinkles.  
  
"There," she whispers with a watery smile. "My hero."  
  
"Not so much the hero," he says ruefully, managing to find his footing again. He brushes her cheek with his fingertips and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "But definitely yours, I'd say."  
  
And oh, the way her eyes light up at that could sustain him for years. He's been hers for what feels like forever and now finally, _finally_ … she wants him.  
  
He kisses her in breathless gratitude—he can think of nothing worse than belonging to someone who doesn't want you.  
  
When he pulls back to look at her, his arms have snuck tightly around her waist.  
  
"You're hugging me again," she teases.  
  
"Yeah, I'll take the blame for this one." He sighs dramatically. "This has been entirely too much emotional turmoil for one evening."  
  
She laughs, forehead dropping to his chest. "I don't know, I think we did alright."  
  
He hums in agreement. They did.  
  
"C'mon," she whispers. "I'm exhausted."  
  
She takes his hand and leads him over to the bed—every one of his desperate, heartsick fantasies come true.  
  
Unfortunately, he still has one more stumbling block.  
  
"Um," he starts eloquently. He winces. This is not smooth.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Pants?" This is the least smooth he has ever been, good lord. Get it together, Reddington.  
  
The corner of her mouth twitches and she gives him a look that he really hopes means she thinks he's being endearing.  
  
"Do you usually sleep with pants on?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Are you currently going commando?"  
  
He snorts. "Of course not."  
  
She shrugs. "Then take them off."  
  
Well, that was easy.  
  
"Yes dear."  
  
She takes the hand the was holding his and uses it to punch him in the arm. "Stop that."  
  
He smirks and watches her move around the room, switching off the main light and then going to what he assumes is her side of the bed and turning off the lamp on the nightstand.  
  
"Anything you say, dear."  
  
She scowls at him. "You're so annoying."  
  
"I really am, aren't I?"  
  
He waits for her to pull back the covers on her side and start getting into bed before he does the same—takes off his pants, turns off the lamp, and slips between the sheets. Easy as that.  
  
He sits for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness so he can see her sitting beside him.  
  
"Alright," she says solemnly, gesturing him towards her with both hands. "Bring it on, Cuddles."  
  
He pulls a face and starts to shift from under the covers threateningly. "I will leave right now."  
  
She grins and lunges at him, half tackling him to the bed, and he gives a startled laugh as his back hits the mattress.  
  
"You would not," she says from where she's landed partially on top of him.  
  
"Probably not."  
  
She scoffs. "Definitely not."  
  
He shakes his head as he leans up to kiss her.  
  
Definitely, definitely not.  
  
"Love you," he whispers as he pulls back.  
  
She smiles and drops her head to his chest, her chin resting on the back of her hands.  
  
He watches her watch him for a few minutes before the curiosity to know what she's thinking gets the better of him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing. Just happy, you know?"  
  
God, he _loves_ her.  
  
"Yeah. I do know."  
  
She kisses his chest before rolling to face away from him, reaching back to pull on his arm until he wraps it around her and slides over to press his chest to her back.  
  
"Good?" she asks.  
  
"Good." He's never felt better in his entire life.  
  
Her hand takes his and she laces their fingers together before lifting their joined hands to her lips and kissing his knuckles. "Glad you're here."  
  
"Me too." He can't help but add, "I do hate it when you're right."  
  
She huffs a laugh, hugs his arm to her chest and mumbles sleepily, "Must be exhausting."  
  
He kisses her shoulder and drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

He wakes what must be only an hour or two later, dreadfully thirsty and dreadfully annoyed about it. He's so _comfortable_ resting there, warm and snug with Lizzie under the covers—she turned in his arms at some point and pressed her face into his chest.  
  
He waits for a few moments, hoping it will pass and allow him to fall back asleep, but it's no use. Resisting the urge to groan dramatically, he moves slowly, trying to extract himself without disturbing Lizzie.  
  
He's almost home free, about to rise from the edge of the bed, when she stirs, shifting toward the space he was occupying.  
  
"Red?"  
  
"Shhh, it's alright. Go back to sleep."  
  
"Where're y'going?" she mumbles, eyes closed. Her hand slides over the mattress, searching for him.  
  
It's one of the most endearing things he's ever seen and his heart swells until he feels it might burst.  
  
"I won't be gone long."  
  
"Don' go."  
  
Truly—he thinks his heart might actually explode.  
  
"I'll be right back, I promise."  
  
She sighs. "M'kay."  
  
He hurries out to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and sipping it on his way back to her room. There's something nice about it, padding around in her house in the dark, knowing that he's welcome and she's waiting for him.  
  
He deposits the mostly empty glass on the nightstand before pulling back the covers, and sliding back into bed with her feels so good he's somehow almost glad he'd been forced to get up in the first place.  
  
He's barely settled before she has a hand curled in his shirt. She tugs at him until his chest is pressed to her back again and he can't help but chuckle as she wiggles beneath his arm before taking a possessive hold of it and wrapping it around her tightly.  
  
"That's my arm, sweetheart."  
  
She hugs it to her chest and hums contentedly. "Mine now."  
  
Before going back to sleep, he gives in to the desire to bring them just a bit closer, sliding his foot between hers and tangling their legs together.  
  
"Cuddles," she teases sleepily.  
  
"Hush."

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The next time he wakes, it's to sunlight. He rubs at his eyes for a moment before opening them to find Lizzie on her side facing him.  
  
"Hi," he says simply, voice still rough with sleep.  
  
"You really are very cute," she responds, drawing a line down the slope of his nose with her finger.  
  
"I am not," he grumbles, catching her hand to kiss all her fingers.  
  
"No, see, you're making it worse," she laughs.  
  
"Incorrect—I bring terror to the hearts of adult and child alike."  
  
"Of course you do."  
  
He smiles and lets his eyes drift shut. "What time is it?"  
  
"Around eight fifteen."  
  
His eyes shoot open. " _What_?"  
  
" _What_ , what? It's eight fifteen."  
  
"You're sure?" That can't be right.  
  
"Well, my sundial _has_ been on the fritz." She rolls her eyes. "Yes, Red, I'm sure."  
  
"Oh."  
  
She looks at him with suspicion for a moment and he tries not to squirm.  
  
"I'm almost afraid to ask this, but how long has it been since you slept for seven or eight solid hours?"  
  
"Not counting sickness, injury, and pharmaceutical or alcoholic intervention?"  
  
" _Red_."  
  
He shrugs. "I'm not sure. It's been a while."  
  
With a heavy sigh, she pushes at his shoulder until he flops onto his back. He doesn't mind the manhandling, because she follows it up by curling up against him with her head tucked beneath his chin and her arm across his chest.  
  
"So I guess that means you slept okay."  
  
"Very well, thank you."  
  
He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, tucking the arm that isn't wrapped around Lizzie up behind his head, and marvels at how relaxed he feels.    
  
Sleeping with Lizzie makes him wish he were a writer simply so he could find adequate words to describe it.  
  
He once told Donald Ressler in that absurd glass box that he wanted the chance to sleep like he did when he was a boy. Children sleep without weight, without concern, secure in the knowledge that there is someone nearby who cares for them.  
  
_Safe._  
  
Sleeping with Lizzie is that.  
  
Safety, and warmth, and a comfort so staggering he could almost cry from it.  
  
With her hand rubbing lazily up and down his side, she declares, "Well, I have no interest in getting up yet, seeing as it's Saturday."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"That is so. And seeing as how I've also claimed possession of all this-" her hand makes a vague gesture over most of his upper body, "-as my pillow, I'm afraid to inform you that you'll not be getting up yet either."  
  
"That's quite a hardship."  
  
"Well, you'll just have to soldier on through it."  
  
He holds his breath for a moment, waits for her to catch on.  
  
" _Don't_ ," she warns.  
  
He grins into her hair, releases the breath he was holding, and whispers,  
  
"Yes dear."

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It takes some time before they're ready, but if sleeping with Lizzie is safety, than _sleeping_ with Lizzie is-

—delighted smiles and bright, giggling laughter—pressing kisses to her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders, whispering love you, love you, _love you_ —possessive sweeping hands on heated skin—fingers laced together so tightly he can believe they'll never let go—her kisses to his wrists, his collarbones, his eyelids, with murmurs of mine, mine, _mine_.

It's the greatest joy he's ever known.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

fin.

 

 

 

 

 

_“You don’t need another human being to make your life complete, but let’s be honest. Having your wounds kissed by someone who doesn’t see them as disasters in your soul but cracks to put their love into is the most calming thing in this world.”_

-Emery Allen


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